I’m starting to figure out there is a neat surprise lurking around every spring training corner.

It’s just a matter of being in the right place at the right time to get treated to one.

Like Friday, when I went to Scottsdale to get a look at San Francisco Giants’ ace Tim Lincecum against the Angels in the Giants’ 5-3 victory, only to run into one of the greatest baseball players ever.

This being Lincecum’s second-to-last appearance before the start of the regular season, he was expected to get stretched out to six or seven innings, and since I’d never seen him pitch before in person, I was excited to finally get an up-close look at him.

Lincecum didn’t last as long as expected, getting lifted after the fourth inning after reaching his pitch count. In the process, he gave up a run on six hits and two walks, but he did have six strikeouts, and it’s easy to see what all the hoopla is about.

The Dodgers will clearly have their hands full with this guy over the years.

And as it turns out, though, he wasn’t the highlight of my day.

Not by a long shot.

About an hour before the game I went down to the Giants clubhouse to talk to former Burbank High standout Freddy Sanchez, who is rehabilitating from a shoulder injury that could keep him sidelined through the first three weeks of the season.

I barely stepped foot into the clubhouse when I noticed three older gentlemen sitting at a table, talking.

“Oh my goodness,” I said. “That’s Willie Mays.”

I blurted the sentence out so loud in my head; I had to look around to make sure nobody actually heard me.

As I did, I locked eyes with one of the Giants’ clubhouse guys, and he gave me one of those knowing looks, as if to say `Yup, that really is Willie Mays sitting a few feet away from us.”

I’m not one of those guys who gets all starry-eyed when he sees a big star, but I’m also not ashamed to say I still get a thrill when I run into one of my childhood heroes.

So I was pretty pumped to see Willie Mays, the greatest baseball player alive.

My connection to him has little to do with his actual playing days. I was much too young to truly remember him as a player, with only a few vague memories of him playing for the New York Mets in 1973.

Mays was at the end of his career by then, and I was just 7 years old, my only real recollection of him how much he struggled in the World Series against the Oakland A’s.

The bigger connection was the impact Mays had on my father, and in turn, me.

See, my dad was born in the Bronx and grew up a staunch New York Giants fan. He was particularly fond of Mays, the Giants’ wonderfully gifted center fielder.

At the time, New York still had three baseball teams, and among the many arguments between Giants, Yankees and Brooklyn Dodgers fans was which club had the best center fielder.

The Yankees had Mickey Mantle, the Dodgers had Duke Snyder and the Giants, of course, had Mays.

For my father, it wasn’t an argument at all. He was a Mays guy through and through, and in his eyes Mays wasn’t just the best center fielder in New York, he was the greatest ballplayer to ever live.

“Nobody could hit, hit for power or defend center field like Willie could,” my dad would say. “Willie was the best player ever. Period.”

I heard it so much growing up, it was inevitable I would become a Mays fan, too.

My dad passed away years ago, so for me to see Mays, to be in the same room as him, was the thrill of a lifetime.

Sanchez walked by a short while later, and told me he had to take care of a few things, but he’d be happy to talk as soon as he got back.

I almost wanted to tell him, “No problem, Freddy, take all the time you need. I’m just standing here, mesmerized by Willie Mays.”

What I really said was I’d wait for him at his locker.

Now, I’m not one to eavesdrop, but with Willie and his friends – among them Marty Lurie, who hosts the Giants pregame and postgame radio shows on KNBR 680 – involved in such an animated conversation about old-time baseball, it was impossible not to hear what they were saying.

What struck me was how on top of things the 79-year old Mays still is. No matter what former ballplayer got brought up – and they must have talked about 10 of them – he had immediate recall on every one of them.

It didn’t matter if it was a former teammate or an opposing pitcher; it was like Willie had a baseball encyclopedia in head, one he could tap into at any time.

Minnie Minoso was one of the most underrated players of all time, according to Mays.

“He could run, hit and defend,” Mays said of the great Cuban. “Did everything.”

One of the great trades in Giants history was when they dealt Bobby Thomson to Milwaukee for Johnny Antonelli just before the 1954 season, Mays remembered.

“Antonelli won 21 games for us that year,” Mays said, “and helped us win the World Series.”

At one point they talked about Early Wynn, a hard-throwing right hander with a disagreeable temperament.

“Now that was a nasty pitcher,” Mays said. “And mean, too. I remember hitting a home run off him in an All-Star Game, off a little slider he threw me, and as I was walked back to the dugout I just knew he was going to hit me with a pitch the next time I came up.”

“Even in an All-Star game?” Lurie asked.

“That’s just the way he was.” Mays said. “Didn’t matter if it was a regular-season game or an All-Star Game. You hit a home run off Early Wynn, he was gonna hit you the next time up.”

Mays took a bite of his sandwich, then smiled and shook his head.

“Lucky for me they took him out a couple innings later,” he said, laughing.

“Wynn reminded me of Sal Maglie,” Lurie said.

“Sal the Barber was another mean dude, boy.” Mays said. “They called him `The Barber’ because he was always buzzing guys if they got up too far up on the plate.

“And he wouldn’t shave the day he pitched. Said it made him look meaner.”

“You probably never faced Sal, right, playing on the same team and all?” Lurie asked.

“Actually I did,” Mays answered, not missing a beat. “He ended up playing a couple years with the Dodgers, so I faced him a few times. But by then he didn’t throw too hard anymore, so it wasn’t a problem.”

Pretty soon Bob Feller’s name came up, and Mays chuckled.

“I don’t think he ever threw me a curveball,” he said. “It was always fastballs right under the chin.”

On this went, for a good 20 minutes or so, with Mays holding court, talking about baseball.

As he did, the clubhouse guys kept bringing baseballs over to him, asking him to sign them. Mays obliged each time, but always asked who he was signing for.

More than a few times, the clubhouse guys pointed to one of the Giants players.

And it immediately struck me that the players were just like me, in awe of an actual baseball legend like Mays, and a little too intimidated to actually walk up to him and strike up a conversation.

Let alone ask for an autograph.

It made me feel better about not trying to talk to him.

Just being in the same room with him, hearing him talk baseball. That was more than enough for me.

Vincent Bonsignore is an NFL columnist for the Southern California News Group. Having covered the Los Angeles sports scene for more than two decades, Bonsignore has emerged as one of the leading voices on the Los Angeles Rams and Los Angeles Chargers, the NFL and NFL relocation.